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A Song for Quiet by Cassandra Khaw6/3/2023 I’ve seen the mouth of the universe open to devour the stars. Not that we ever did, generations between us, but this isn’t about that. I forget we no longer experience time in the same fashion. You look more tired than I remember, more battered. That feed is closer to real-time, even if the ocular prosthetics are better at imaging colors, richer in saturation. “Where lies your landmark, seamark, or your soul’s star?” asked a poet once and I think to myself: here. Why should you mind? I blink and delight, just for a second, in the way the lashes-synthetic hairs, so pliant that they could almost pass for real-feel on my cheeks. Then again, we’d pick this model together, contoured and coaxed its anatomy into a compromise of shared aesthetics. I experience the sensation in staccato: the bend of my joints, the peculiar texture of my skin, the one you said you never minded. I flex my fingers, squeeze the vinyl flesh into a fist. Even ten million lightyears away, suspended between seconds, time beading silver-bright on molecules of dark matter, home has always been the silence I’ve held in the chapel of your hands. Home is the diction and rhythm of your conversation, is the bend of your mouth, the slant of your smile. Home is the quality of light in your eyes on a summer night, salt-scent and clean skin, the rasp of your stubble along on the curve of my palm.
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